Tell Me You Love Me
by WriterLola24
Summary: One-shot of Future!Johnlock WARNING" Crying ensured, this is a ANGST fic


Summary: One-shot of Future!Johnlock WARNING" Crying ensured, this is a ANGST fic

**"Tell Me You Love Me"**

Sherlock gently slid out of bed, his husband still sound asleep. He crept down the hall to start the tea, something he'd taken to doing since Mrs. Hudson's passing. He leaned heavily against the counter while the pot boiled. His back was taught and his hip screamed. Sherlock had to have surgery last week, that was to be expected with his age and profession. Sherlock Holmes was sixty-nine years old. His face was aged with a few wrinkles, however it was his hair that gave away his true age: grey and white. Sherlock was too lazy to die it anymore, too much valuable time wasted on the small act. In addition, he kept his hair chopped fairly short and held a slight gotee/beard.

Lestrande and John talked Sherlock into working from home only a few years ago. It was a major blow to Sherlock, however he was faced forcifally with the hard facts. Sherlock Holmes was aging. Something he had feared, had loathed, had hid from...until John. John Watson was always there, there to comfort him, to reassure him and to support him. John helped him to see: this is life. And Sherlock loved his life. He loved his husband and child, Rosie. They were the perfect family. His family.

Sherlock's parents passed when Sherlock turned fifty-two, it was rough but he had Mycroft. Then, Mycroft too passed when Sherlock turned Sixty. Mycroft, not much older, had a heart attack. Apparently, despite his old claims, he really did have one.

Now, this was it. Sherlock's family of three.

The kettle screamed and Sherlock jumped slightly. He had gotten lost in his mind palace again. Sentiment. His brother used to laugh at the concept, oh how things had changed. Sherlock poured the tea and set it on the table, his experiments gone some time ago. He held his cup close while he waited, and waited, and waited. Sherlock set his cup down, slightly concerned. John was a creature of habit. Every morning Sherlock would rise at six o'clock to make the tea, John shortly followed at six-fifteen.

"John?" Sherlock called stiffly walking to the bedroom..He received no answer.

"John?" he tried again, opening the door. John was still in bed, asleep with his back to the door. Sherlock contemplated a moment before going to him. John too had knee surgery, although it was some time ago it has been giving him great trouble.

"John?" Sherlock whispered again, brushing a lock of grey from his face. He froze,

"John?" he said, shaking the other man's' shoulder.

"JOHN!" he yelled frantically tugging at the body in the bed. There was no response. Sherlock felt for a pulse, nothing. He checked for breathing, none. Now hysterical, Sherlock pulled the body onto the floor. He began compressions and breaths.

"Please, please John," he cried to the man. Sherlock snatched the phone from the table behind him and dialed for help, the only hindrance to his CPR. When the medics arrived, they had to haul Sherlock from John's body. It was when they tried to tell him that John was gone, Sherlock went mad. They allowed him to continue his compressions and breaths until the arrived to the hospital, Greg Lestrande and Molly Hooper were there waiting for him.

"Sherlock-" Molly began.

"Molly! Molly, please, help me! We-we need to get him ventilated now! Hurry!" Sherlock shouted out. They didn't move.

"What're you all doing? You're just standing there! Help me!" Sherlock cried.

"He's gone Sherlock," Greg said clasping his shoulder. Sherlock shrugged him off.

"No, no, no," Sherlock repeated, still maintaining compressions.

"Sherlock, John is dead," Molly said forcing him to look at her. Sherlock froze. Molly's eyes were so full of sorrow and grief, she had no indication of lying. Sherlock looked around frantically, he looked at the medics, at Lestrande and Molly. Finally, he looked at John. John's skin was pale, his natural tan gone. His hair lay limp and greasy. His eyes, his beautiful eyes, closed since last night when they went to sleep.

"No, no, no!" Sherlock screamed pounding his fists against the chest that would never again rise. Molly and Lestrande pulled him out of the ambulance, holding him up on his feet.

"It was supposed to be me!" Sherlock cried, "why wasn't it me?" He sobbed into Molly's jumper as a few nurses came for John. It was when they took John's body through the front doors that Sherlock fell.


End file.
